


Altered States

by aces



Category: Invisible Man
Genre: Quicksilver Madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-07
Updated: 2010-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex. Drugs. QSM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Altered States

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Sexual situations, a hint of attempted rape--nothing happens, but could be triggery--swearing
> 
> Notes: I've been digging out I-Man eps on occasion and watching them again for the first time in ages, and the other day I decided to watch "Money for Nothing" again. Woah. Just…woah. Either I missed something the first time around, or my memory's completely shot. And that…led to this.

Sex. Drugs.

Rock'n'roll.

Ohhh, he could dig this, yeah. This was cool. This was sweet. This was groovy.

Darien's lips curved upward as he surveyed the scene.

Movement, bodies frenetic and abandoned. Light and darkness, intermingling, throwing each other in relief. Music, bass pounding down his ears until his whole body was numb. There were probably a hundred dancers in the club alone, never mind the rest of the patrons hanging out on the edges, at the tables and the bar, the waitresses and waiters doing their own dance with the trays and the bills and the flirting. Maybe even more people than that. The music was techno, all about the beat, the groovy, groovy beat.

He could _really_ dig this.

Darien slid through the crowd, caressing a shoulder here, bumping against an ass there, not pausing at the outer tables though a number of people tried to catch his eye, women and men. He wanted the dance floor. He wanted the dance floor aaaaaallll to himself.

Darien Fawkes was in the mood to party.

***

"Right," the Keeper said crisply, "he's in here somewhere."

"Yeah, yeah, he's in here somewhere, somewhere, sure," was Bobby's pissed off answer, "but how the hell do we find him?"

"I would think that would be fairly easy, Mr Hobbes," said Eberts in surprise, and Hobbes turned his glare onto the other man. "We're looking for a tall Caucasian man with dark spiky hair wearing a green t-shirt and jeans…" Eberts floundered under the combined steady gazes of the Keeper and Bobby. "The red eyes are distinctive," he finished weakly.

Bobby snorted, once again wondering why the _hell_ the Official thought they should bring _Eberts_ along with them. He swung back violently to the Keeper, dismissing his boss's sidekick, and thrust out his hand. "Gimme the counteragent."

Claire looked around, but the other clubgoers in the vicinity were pointedly ignoring the staids in their suits and a boring skirt that actually went past the knee. "We're lucky I even have one dose," she said in a low voice. "And I'm the one who's been giving him his shots regularly this whole time. I'll hold onto it, Bobby."

"Fine, fine," was Hobbes's frustrated reply. "Can we just get a move on? You stay here and keep a lookout, _Eberts_," he added without looking around—trying to send that clown onto a floor full of dancers would be a positive nightmare—and then he disappeared into the pulsating, laughing, shouting crowds.

The Keeper exchanged long-suffering glances with Eberts, sighed, and followed Bobby's lead, heading in the opposite direction.

***

"Hi there," Darien smiled, ducking down to breathe in her ear as the girl turned around rhythmically on the floor. She was short, long straight brown hair going right down to her ass; arms almost as long, and white, and thin, and winding sinuously around over her head. She grinned slowly back at him, running her eyes over his body appreciatively.

"What's with the shades?" she yelled over the music.

He wrapped an arm casually around her waist and leant in suddenly. "Don't you like them?" he breathed again against her ear.

She giggled when his breath tickled, wriggled in his arm. He started moving with her, right up against her body. Her breath smelled of orange juice and vodka and maybe something else.

Sex. Drugs.

Rock'n'roll.

***

Hobbes maneuvered through the crowd with no style, no grace, no finesse, only practical, businesslike efficiency. Eberts was right, really; even in a crowd like this full of beautiful young people, Darien was distinctive with the hair and the height and the hair. And he probably wasn't exactly trying to keep a low profile.

It was too soon after last time, too soon to happen again. Hell, going quicksilver mad _ever_ again woulda been too soon, but Fawkes had only just gotten over the fifth stage madness thing a couple weeks ago. And mentally he was still a bit of a wreck about it.

And as for Bobby…

He hated it. He hated with a passion that even traitors to their country, terrorists, and lithium couldn't compare to his hatred of what that stupid fucked-up gland had done to his friend. Granted, he never woulda met Fawkes if it wasn't for that stupid fucked-up gland, and if he had he woulda found Fawkes an asshole of the first degree, but all that was beside the point. The gland made Fawkes do stupid things. Stupid, horrible, violent things to innocent people.

And there were a helluva lot of innocent people here tonight.

***

He was still right up against her, hands sweet on her ass, and she had her arms moving all over him—back, neck, shoulders—and her sweet eyes were closed, soft smile on her sweet face, sweet hair brushing against his bare arms, tingling at the tiny hairs there and _yeah_ she felt good.

Maybe he should fuck her. Maybe he should kill her.

He was grinding into the rhythm, grinding into the sex that was almost tangible in the air, sweat and heat and bodies everywhere. Christ yeah. This was beautiful.

He bent down to breathe in her ear again, just for kicks. She giggled again and somehow wriggled up even tighter, closer, against him.

Darien's lips curved slowly upwards.

***

The Keeper pushed through the crowd, her eyes darting everywhere, not stopping though an awful lot of men and a rather gratifying number of women all tried to catch her eye, her shoulder, her arm. She smiled tensely and shrugged them all off, hunting. She hadn't even put on her clubbing clothes nor done anything with her hair.

The damned strobe lights were getting in the way of her seeing anything, and there were too many people here anyway. She scowled and stopped moving suddenly, an obstacle, a block in the flow of movement throughout the whole club. Where would she go if she were Darien Fawkes in the midst of quicksilver madness?

The answer was obvious.

Claire set off once more.

***

She was licking the side of his face, right near his little curl of a sideburn, verrrrrry slowly, and he was nibbling at her ear, and they were still pulsing with the beat, and he reeeeaaaaallllly wanted to get closer to her.

His mouth moved, kissing along the curve of her chin, making his way deliberately to her lips. She opened willingly and he got a little rough 'cos he felt like it, taking her mouth just as he damned well pleased. He bit at her bottom lip.

"Ow!" She woke up a little, eyes open and dreamy blissed-out smile leaving her face, her arms pushing at his as she started to struggle to get out of his embrace. "Let go, you bastard, that hurt—"

He pulled her in tighter, leant down to breathe in her ear. "Aww, come on, sister," he said, and she stilled suddenly, shivering because his breath tickled. He could feel her breathing against him, her chest heaving as she started to hyperventilate, as the adrenaline really kicked in. He could even feel her heart fluttering against him. He laid a hand against the side of her face possessively. "No one's gonna hear you in this," he whispered reasonably and licked the side of her neck.

She pushed away from him again instinctively, but there was nowhere for her to go. Tears were running down her cheeks. Darien leered at her, totally in control and reveling in it and getting off on her weakness. Oh yeah.

A cool hand slid up his arm, making his whole body convulse. "Oh, but Darien," said a cool British accent with just enough of a hint of seductive tease to keep her tone from really freezing, "what about _me_?"

Darien immediately released the girl, forgetting about her entirely as he turned to face the newcomer with a wide, wide grin on his mouth. "Why, hel_lo_ Keepey," he said, slipping an arm around her waist casually and bringing her right up close. "Have I told you how much I _love_ this dress?"

He could see a syringe up her jacket sleeve. He looked up a little more to grin into her watching, expectant, tense face.

Sex. Drugs.

Rock 'n' roll.

***

Bobby caught at the sobbing girl with long brown hair that had run off the dance floor. "Did he hurt you?" he asked her, not bothering to wait for her story, not bothering to find out if it was the right girl. He knew. He knew.

She shook her head quickly, once, twice, three times, chin quivering, body trembling. "Only a—a little," she choked out. "He wouldn't let me go…"

He wanted to hug her, smooth down her hair, wipe away her tears. He knew that wasn't what she needed from him, wasn't what she would accept from him.

"Are you here with anybody else?" She nodded a little. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Find them. Get them to take you home. Okay? Take a shower, some aspirin, sleep tonight off. Don't worry about it, honey. He didn't hurt you. Okay?"

She nodded again and disappeared into the pulsating crowd.

Hobbes started to retrace her path, his face set.

***

"Hullo, Darien," the Keeper leant up into him to speak in his ear at an almost normal conversational voice level, keeping her voice breathy, as sexy as she could make it when she didn't feel sexy at all. She put an arm around his waist, mirroring him, fitting herself neatly against him, and casually she slid her other hand under his watch. She glanced down at the indicator, trying to make it look coincidental.

"Oh, it's red, baby," he told her and began nuzzling at her neck. "I could've told you that without your even having to look, darlin'."

Claire tried not to react to the smooth tone of his voice, to his wet lips against her neck. She tried not to feel her pounding heart, the sudden heat and adrenaline in her body, her sweat commingling with his as his lips grazed against her skin slowly, methodically. Remember what Bobby witnessed him doing, she reminded herself, when he went into fifth stage. This was nothing compared to that, to those poor people, that poor mime. This was almost normal, at least for Darien's quicksilver madness.

He was terrifying her.

She slowly, deliberately let her arm glide up his back so that it could play with his hair. "Ooooh," he said with a little grin playing about his lips as he looked up from her neck momentarily, "that tickles."

She grinned back broadly and kept playing with his hair. It was unnerving to see that grin without seeing his eyes, his sweet brown eyes that made that smile innocent. "Are you having fun yet?" she asked, keeping her voice still breathy, still seductive.

He cinched her closer, pushing her right up against him, lining her body up against his, and she'd never been this close to him before. She managed not to gasp. "Oh _yeah_ Keepey," he said, looking up at her over his sunglasses. "Are you?"

Red eyes.

"Of course I am," she said, smiling at him widely, giving him all her teeth. She paused in her hair-twirling to manipulate the syringe out of her sleeve. It was hot, clammy in her hand from lying against her arm for so long. "Ready to have even more fun?" She licked her lips, watching his red eyes the whole time.

He licked his own lips in imitation. It was a slow, sensual, sexy movement, and her breath caught despite herself. He was terrifyingly charismatic like this. And terrifyingly dangerous. He cocked his head to one side, away from the hand holding the syringe. His sunglasses glinted in a flash of white light. He almost seemed to glance over his own shoulder at the needle poised above his neck, though his head never turned. She couldn't tell with those sunglasses.

"Lay it on me, Claire," he grinned, daring her.

She plunged the needle down into his skin.

***

Bobby halted when he saw the two of them, Darien all over Claire, Claire all over Darien. He felt a rage building up inside him, he wanted to shoot Fawkes, goddammit he hated how Fawkes could do that, hated how in fifth stage madness the fucker could even almost make Bobby act like Claire was now and boy did he remember how persuasive Darien had been, how _tempting_ if only for a moment, and it'd be too easy to give into the madness right along with him—

He saw a glint of metal flash behind Darien's head and realized Claire was holding the syringe even as she smiled invitingly up into Darien's face, leaning right into him. He saw the glint suddenly drop down.

He saw Darien slump into Claire's waiting arms.

***

The reaction, as always, was instantaneous. Darien spasmed right into her, and she caught him, held him up, kept him standing, let him bury his face in her chest. None of these people had to know. Nobody had to know. Even with the bass thumping through her entire body she could feel his howl vibrating against her heart.

A minute passed, maybe more, and he pushed against her weakly, his arms hanging over her shoulders limply, uselessly. He looked at her from eye level, unable to stand up all the way, and she met his gaze head on. They stood there for a long moment, looking at each other.

Brown eyes.

"I can't do it," he mouthed at her too softly for her to hear over the music but she could read his lips in the sparkling flashing lights. "I can't do it. Please, God, don't let me do it—"

His eyes were wide and brown and watering, his sunglasses having fallen to the floor under them after she stuck him with counteragent, and he fell against her again, startling her this time. She put her arms around him awkwardly, pushing the used syringe down her jacket sleeve carefully in the meantime. And then she held onto him properly, kept him standing, kept his dignity because neither of them could hold his sanity.

"Not again, please not again, please not again," he was sobbing into her shoulder. "I can't do it, I can't do it, I _can't_ do it…"

Claire winced, a spasm shooting up her own body in physical as well as emotional empathy for him. It was too soon. It would always be too soon, but this—this was hell. He was damned.

Bobby was standing with them, out of nowhere, and sometimes he was really good at that, and she looked at him over Darien's shoulder, biting her lip. And then he was taking Darien away from her with a set, competent look on his face, settling the taller man's gangly body against his own securely. She felt helpless. She felt useless. She felt awful.

Bobby nodded, wrapping his arms around his partner, standing him up just like Claire had done. Nobody had to know. The older agent jerked his head, indicating to her the main entrance where Eberts was waiting for them, no doubt anxiously. She nodded. He nodded back, then turned and led a stumbling, sodden, mortified Darien Fawkes out of the club.

Claire followed, a hand resting lightly on Darien's back so he wouldn't fall.


End file.
